PJDJW Part Two: The Disappearance of an Heiress
by electrickpurple
Summary: Slashfic  Sequel to 'The Private Journal of Dr John Watson'. Sherlock and John have a new case. But John has plenty of other things on his mind. In this unanticipated new phase in his life, can Sherlock learn to prioritise? *CHAPTER 3 UP!*
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: __I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations._

_Author's Notes: They're ba-aack! I can only apologise that it's taken so long to publish this, hopefully it'll be worth the wait!  
Thanks to everyone who subscribed and asked for more chapters. I've decided to start a completely new story, rather than just add to the first – because I'm awkward like that! Also because we're moving on, hopefully to whole new heights of Sherlock/John goodness. And because they have a new case to solve!  
As always, I'm grateful for any feedback…and requests, ideas…something new for me to take on board! I've already got something in the pipeline that you might enjoy…_

_…_

_**Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal**_

**New Entry:**

When all that business with Moriarty had started to feel like someone's idea of a sick joke – not real any more, not even worth mentioning – we got a new case.  
Sherlock's been so much more attentive, since we were taken hostage. Since Jim's warning.  
I'd like to think that he cares, genuinely, anyway – but I think he was basically just worried that I might've gone off the idea of _us _and didn't want things to cool between us before we'd had full sex. After all, he hasn't shown any signs of trying to read this journal again. Not once. If he really wants to know how I'm feeling, and is too uncertain to ask me, all he has to do is _read. _I changed my password again – but that'll only put him off for about twenty seconds.  
He seemed perfectly OK with being relaxed for a few weeks, sort of acting like a couple in the way we spent pretty much all of our time together, in the flat, and started to time things around each other's habits – meal times, bedtimes…_other _stuff…  
And then, when we'd been without a case for almost a month, he found an experiment to occupy his mind with.

"John…"

I looked up from the_ Guardian _I was reading – he was laid full-length across the sofa, staring at the ceiling, hands pressed together under his chin.

"Yeah?"

"I really think it's about time we talked about fourth base."

I dropped my paper. "Bloody hell…"

It's all I could think of to say.

"What?"

"Well, you don't beat around the bush, do you? For Christ's sake!" I think I was so shocked by the outburst because we'd only been watching TV and eating takeaway half an hour before.

His eyes slid to look at me, but he didn't move. He frowned at the sight of me – I think all the colour had drained from my face.

"No, I don't. Not exactly a well-kept secret." He shrugged his mouth. "I didn't think you'd mind. We've done everything else except full penetration. It's been months. I thought you might want to try it."

"Sherlock – you – you can't –" I floundered.

"Well – I _can_." He gave me a slightly patronising look that annoyed me even more. "Just because you balk at the thought of talking about sex before eleven pm, doesn't mean that the rest of the world does. Hear me out: I have some excellent suggestions."

I rubbed my face with my palms and turned fully to face him. Looked like I had no choice in the matter, then. What else is new?

"Go on then, let's hear them. I'm all ears."

He sat up, leant forward onto his elbows in a way that showed just how eager he was about the whole thing. My knees felt suddenly numb, my bravado faltered – was I really ready for this conversation?  
Me and Sherlock have gotten close to full sex a couple of times, but I think we both felt too inexperienced to take control of the situation, and we were both too horny to put too much thought into our actions. Knowing Sherlock, he'd done some kind of research – 'in a perfunctory way' – so that he could be fully informed when he finally decided to discuss it with me.

"Well, to begin with: I think you should be the one who penetrates me, the first time."

His eyes were locked almost fiercely onto mine. I definitely shuddered.

"Jesus, Sherlock..." I rubbed my face again. A thousand questions ran through my mind at once, but I decided to ask just one: "How did you decide that?" I was almost morbidly curious.

He smiled widely. Looked like I'd asked the right question.

"I think it would be good for you."

I made a scoffing noise. "Now _you _sound like the doctor here."

"Well yes, I suppose so. My prescription would certainly suit your symptoms: an inferiority complex, doubts about the legitimacy of our relationship..."

I blinked slowly a few times. Letting the words sink in; shock often takes a while to settle. Then I spluttered out my protest, "I'm not even going to _start _asking where the hell you got that diagnosis from – what I think you need to know, first off, is that I _really _don't think I'm ready for –"

"Oh, yes – you are," Sherlock said brightly, nodding at me like the Churchill dog. "If anything, you are _far _more qualified than me to take on the role of 'top', being the only one who has lost his virginity." For some reason, I blushed – even though I lost my virginity when I was seventeen, and was therefore far past the point of finding sex daunting or embarrassing – or so you would think. "All you have to do, in this situation, is apply your prior knowledge to a slightly different…configuration."

I shook my head and laughed, mainly because this whole conversation was so awkward – for me at least. "You make it sound so bloody simple. You _do _realise that having full sex with a man, for me, will be much more than just a 'slightly different configuration', don't you?"

"You're forgetting, John. I don't have any prior expectations. You could fuck it up completely – so to speak – and it wouldn't bother me in the slightest."

"Now – _that _can't be true." I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Well, I don't know. I've got no point of reference. Would I preferit if 'sparks flew' and the 'earth moved'? Maybe." I found myself wanting to laugh at his invisible air-quoting. He sounds so much like a batty professor at times, it's unreal. "But a failed attempt would be equally as useful for me, to chalk up as experience."

"_Fucking hell…_"

"Problem?"

I bit my lip, closed my eyes and counted to five. "Am I your guinea-pig, Sherlock? Your - _sexual_ guinea-pig?" I folded my arms protectively; my face was stony.

"Hm." Sherlock nodded. He couldn't keep the smile from his face. "I was right. _Definite _inferiority complex."  
I started to get up to leave, but Sherlock stood up too; stopped me with his arm as I blustered past him. He grabbed both my arms by the elbows and moved me to face him, his breath close to my skin.  
"You're panicking. Quite the reaction I expected. Didn't think this would be easy for you, but –" he sighed, "I was under the impression that you _did _want to fuck me, at some stage."

My stomach lurched slightly – with anticipation, with nerves, I don't know – and I felt that familiar dull ache between my legs. He was right. There had been times when we'd been together and I'd felt my body making decisions for me that I never even knew I wanted to make – but at the last minute my brain had taken over and shouted at me: 'Stop! Oh my God _stop_, what the hell are you doing?' I just couldn't imagine what taking Sherlock would be like, what it would _feel _like. But even then, as he was standing over me and I knew how much he wanted it, I couldn't deny that I wanted it too.  
I looked up at him, felt my attention slipping to his mouth, remembering what it felt like to kiss it, to taste it.

"I do." My voice barely scratched out.

"Sometimes, John – and you're a military man, you should know this – it's prudent to take a risk in the knowledge that life will most certainly change after it, perhaps not in the way you expected but in the way it was always _bound _to change, because it is a risk you were always inevitably going to take." His hand slipped to the front of my shirt, and toyed with the first button.

I leaned into him, let him kiss me carefully on the mouth and then laughed gently against his chest, "You know, talking clever bullshit doesn't let you escape from the fact that it _is _actually bullshit."

Sherlock smiled and chuckled softly, "I'll take that as your consent."

…

We hurried up to Sherlock's room – well, Sherlock hurried, I was dragged helplessly behind. Since the incident with the mildew, I've not moved back into my own room, even though Mrs H has had it cleaned and re-decorated from top to bottom. I gave her back the camp-bed she'd loaned to me (totally unused, but she doesn't know that), and moved my stuff back in there, but I still sleep in Sherlock's bed every night and he's never asked me to stop. As far as we're both concerned, it's a convenient arrangement. He even got Mrs H to put curtains up the other day, once I'd finally worked up the courage to admit that the bare windows made me feel a tiny bit like an exhibitionist.  
We laid fully-clothed on the bed and just re-acquainted ourselves with each other – kissing slowly, sharing the warmth of our tongues, letting our hands explore each other lazily. Sherlock was patient with me, didn't try to rush me in any way. He licked slowly over my throat while he gradually peeled away my clothes, and I wound my fingers in his thick black hair, sliding my other hand down his back and kneading carefully at his lean muscle. When I was left in just my boxers I did the same for him, and we pressed our cool bodies against each other, getting used to the feeling of skin-on-skin.

I breathed him in, let the scent of him stir things inside me that always seem to bubble under the surface when he's near me. I kissed Sherlock almost hungrily, while his hand moved between my legs and stroked me agonisingly slowly through the fabric of my underwear, stretching out every tiny reaction in my body. I was gasping against his collarbone when he finally moved away, taking hold of one of my hands and guiding me to his own erection. I traced it carefully with my fingertips, enjoying the hot bursts of air from his lungs as he struggled to contain his reaction.

"John," he swallowed deeply, "_Hnn_…I…I'm…" His eyes snapped open, and he looked suddenly so alert that I wondered if I'd somehow managed to help him solve some case I didn't even know about.

My hand moved less quickly; I thought he might want a pause to recover.

"What? What is it?" I asked softly.

Sherlock smiled, leaned towards me and pressed his gorgeous mouth against my jaw to whisper in my ear. "Ready…" he rasped, and I struggled to recognise his voice.

"Oh. _Oh…_OK." I bit my bottom lip. Still wasn't totally sure that _I _was ready.

"We can take things…" he kissed below my jaw, "as slowly…" he kissed my Adam's apple, "as you like…" he kissed me on the lips, in a way that communicated a dozen emotions to me that I couldn't even start to name, and my brain turned into a whirlpool, making me forget everything.

We were kissing like it was going out of style. The heat from Sherlock's lips and tongue was enough to make my eyes water with lust, and I was still coherent enough to realise that my body was starting to make decisions for me, led mainly by my insistent hard-on. I could feel my hands moving down to Sherlock's hips, grasping them at either side, and was totally powerless to stop them. Still kissing him feverishly, I was guiding his hips towards mine, timing a thrust perfectly so that our erections made a blood-melting friction. Sherlock groaned against my lips at the sensation, grabbed the back of my head with both hands and dragged his body up against mine, making himself shudder so deeply that I wondered how close he was to…'throwing in the game', before it had even started.

I broke the kiss, slowly, and manoeuvred one of my legs over his body, so that I was straddling Sherlock's knees. Seeing him prone, underneath me, made me sort of dizzy with power, and I imagined taking him roughly, giving him no time to prepare, hurling any thoughts about his virginity and our inexperience out of the window.  
Instead, I asked him (almost too-politely) to take off his underwear, and let him wait for me to do the same. When we'd both caught our breath, it was easier for me to think things through.

Not taking my eyes from Sherlock's (which were wide, as if he was surprised, or rapt – I couldn't tell), I slid my palms gently up his body on either side of his hips, feeling the warmth of his pale skin and the hard lines of his muscles. Sherlock inhaled slowly and bit his lip; I smiled hazily back at him and judged that he wasn't having second thoughts – so far. My eyes slid to his thighs and I stroked them gently, applying a bit more pressure with my thumbs against his inner thighs so that he started to spread his legs slightly. I knew I would start to lose it again if I watched his face, so I concentrated on massaging the tops of his thighs, just letting the movements of his body tell me whether I was on the right track or not. His groans were quite a good indication, too – quiet at first, hardly anything more than gasps, but as the pressure of my fingers increased, the gasps turned to moans, the moans to incoherent mumbling, the mumbling to repeated pleas to 'Hurry up – Oh God hurry up – John Watson, if you don't _do something _soon I'm going to…'

I started to position myself closer to him, and by the time I was close enough to press my cock against him my hands were raising his hips off the bed, resting on his buttocks, feeling the warm, pliable skin under my fingertips. Sherlock let his head fall back, his breathing shallow as I rubbed myself gently against the swell of his arse, biting back my moans of pleasure as the heat started to build in my groin.  
This was going a lot better than I expected. I thought the whole thing would freak me out completely, but everything seemed so right, so logical, so…easy. Sherlock had been right – there really wasn't any better direction for our relationship to take. The trust was there: we'd established that a while back. The lust was self-evident. Our self-confidence…well, that sort of thing only comes with practise.

I stopped long enough to choke out a few words, "Is – is this – ok?"

Sherlock nodded weakly, his head heavy. He reached one long arm out and tapped his fingertips on the bedside table. I followed the noise with lust-blurred vision and saw a bottle of lube. _When had he bought that? _Crafty bugger; clearly planning ahead, assuming he'd get me to this point, before I'd even _considered_ the idea. I croaked at him to pass it over.  
Spilling the liquid over the both of us in the least messy way possible wasn't all that easy. I slicked it over my cock in a pretty unstylish way, and hesitated to put any on Sherlock. If I'm honest, I had no idea if I was doing it right. But the way Sherlock reacted to my hands on him reassured me – a bit. When my fingers slipped carefully inside him for the first time, he tightened around me, his muscles tensing – but his whole body squirmed almost completely off the bed, and his cock jerked in a way that brought me embarrassingly close to laughing with delight, like a boy with a highly-inappropriate new toy to play with.

I thrust my slick fingers inside him for a while, getting used to the rhythm that he liked, trying to find the angle he liked best. I'd read something about a man's 'G-spot' in a gay magazine (which _someone _had left unsurreptitiously lying around a few days before) – the prostate, which, if I could find it, seemed to be the Holy Grail of anal sex. Unfortunately, probing around Sherlock for a few minutes didn't yield any results; but I figured there'd be plenty of time, later. He seemed to be enjoying my movements anyway: biting the back of his hand in that way that reminds me there is still a side of him that isn't indestructible. His moans, too, were getting louder, as he watched me, seemingly fascinated by the effect this was having on him. His curiosity made my body ache with pleasure; to know that I could make him react like this, in a way that nobody else could, and probably ever will.

I felt those strange words on the tip of my tongue, again, longing to burst out of me as I leant my body up to kiss him deeply on the lips – but I pushed them back. Not the time. And I don't believe it's true.

"_Now, _John," Sherlock growled, his breath humid on my face, jellifying my insides. "It's time. Are you ready?"

I gritted my jaw, tried to smile, nodded. It was time. I hoped so hard to be good. That he would enjoy it. But this was no time for anxiety. This was the battlefield…of sorts. A challenge to be faced, and overcome.

My hand was perfectly steady as I guided myself inside Sherlock. For once, I was glad for that odd quirk.  
He was hot and tight – oh _God so tight –_ around me, taking me in perfectly so that I hardly had to hesitate. I managed to plunge almost down to the hilt in one go, and only dared to open my eyes when I heard Sherlock sigh and felt his stomach muscles shift underneath me.

The rapture on his face was almost unbearable. I took a deep, frantic thrust at the sight of it, fighting not to get lost in the sensation and spill over the edge too quickly.

Then: disaster. _At ease troops…cease all manoeuvres._

Sherlock's mobile buzzed – a text. I froze.

'_Don't answer it don't answer it FOR FUCK'S SAKE don't you even…'_

Too late.

He gave me a strange look that I took as 'apologetic' but it seemed wrong and unwelcome on Sherlock's face. Then his hands were on my chest and I knew I had to pull out of him. I felt so fucking humiliated but I couldn't even bring myself to storm out of the room; just sat back on my heels and watched, blank-faced and gormless, as Sherlock leant over to retrieve the mobile from the bedside table. A voice laughed childishly in my head when I noticed that he winced as he moved – aching already, by the looks of it. _'Ha ha! Good. Bastard.' _I felt guilty almost straight away – didn't really want to see him in pain, but I was hurting in an altogether different way.

"It's from Lestrade."

'_Whoop-de-fucking-do. Let's throw him a party!' _My mouth was clamped shut, but inside I was ranting like a madman.

Sherlock wasn't even looking at me; thumbs clicking over the phone's keypad as he typed a hasty reply. He talked to me as he typed.

"We're going to have a visitor tomorrow – twelve o'clock. Young woman by the name of Anna Parks. Says he can't give us any more details because he hasn't met her – she contacted him this morning and asked to be put in touch with his finest detective. When he found out the details of the case, he put her straight on to me."

He smiled smugly at his phone screen, oblivious to my steely silence. When he finally looked up at me, it seemed he was going to ignore it completely.

"I'll have to do some research tomorrow before she arrives – the case originates from overseas and I'm not entirely up-to-date on my knowledge. That means I'll need you to watch out for her coming. Could ask Mrs Hudson, but she's more than a little absent-minded – you're OK with it." It wasn't even a question.

"Hmm. Yes, Sherlock, I'm _fine _with it." I answered anyway.

"Good…" He still wasn't really paying me any attention; finished sending his text and then looked at me in his usual calculating way. Maybe he'd finally sensed the atmosphere – I don't know.

I shook my head, re-found the use of my legs and managed to walk to the bathroom, to tidy myself up. Sherlock was waiting at the door when I'd finished, and I avoided his eye, just making room for him to walk past me.  
When he'd showered, I moved over to my usual side of the bed, flopping onto my back and glaring at the ceiling, my arms rigid by my sides, fists clenched.  
He paused briefly to look at me and then laid down next to me, mirroring my position, with his hands clasped across his chest, fingers drumming idly.

"John," he started to ask, and I almost prayed that he wouldn't finish the sentence, "Usual shower-after-sex etiquette indicates that the moment's passed. Do you definitely not want to…?"

"_No. _No I bloody-well don't. _Goodnight, _Sherlock," I huffed, jerking my body round so that I had my back to him, forgetting to pull the duvet over me in the heat of my frustration. And that's how we went to bed that night.

…

I remember shivering in the night, but was still too stubborn to change position. At some point, Sherlock had laid his dressing gown over me, but I was too pissed off in the morning to appreciate the gesture, and threw it roughly against the headboard as I marched downstairs.  
I decided, almost as soon as I'd woken up to find Sherlock had already gone to the living room, that I wasn't going to talk to him. I know – it's childish. But I was feeling pretty self-indulgent. He'd disappointed me, in more ways than one – but most of all, he'd hurt my pride. I've always known that to him, 'the work' is everything – but over _this? _Over_ us? _It hurt – fucking hurt. I'd started to believe that I was an inextricable _part _of his 'work'. Stupid. Idiot John.

I made another stubborn – and equally childish – decision, as I made my way to the living room. Sherlock had asked me to look out for Anna Parks while he did his research. She was coming at twelve. It was only ten am. But damn it, I was going to stand looking out of that bloody window, waiting for her, for the next two hours, not talking to him, just to prove a point_. _And he could fucking stick _that _in a text to DI Lestrade.

As I marched stiffly into the room, I noticed Sherlock in the kitchen from the corner of my eye, sitting at the table, hunched over something which must've required all his attention. Heard the crunching of toast and the tapping of keys: surfing the net and eating at the same time. Typical – and then he'll ask to use _my _laptop when his is all smeared with food.  
Except…_hang on…  
__His _laptop was still on the desk; where he'd left it the night before. Which meant…  
I wheeled round, ready to rant and rave at him about respecting personal property. The words were almost out of my mouth before I remembered my 'silent protest' plan, and bit them back. But my hackles had definitely raised. My mood didn't show any sign of improving.

I gritted my teeth, shoved my hands in my jeans pockets, and walked purposefully over to the window. Peeling back the curtain, I scanned the view of Baker St. below, seeing nothing out of the ordinary (as far as I could tell) – the usual passing buzz of traffic and pedestrians. The thought suddenly occurred to me that, even when this mysterious and intriguing _Anna Parks _did show up, I wouldn't have a cat in hell's chance of recognising her. I'd have to wait until she came right up to our front door, to know it was definitely her. That _really _didn't seem to give Sherlock all that much time to 'prepare' (whatever it was he was planning to do).

"Morning John."

I almost turned. I'd been distracted already; getting wrapped up in the case before it had even started, like Sherlock probably knew I would. He was trying to talk me round while my mind was occupied. _'Not happening sunshine.'  
_I ignored him.  
Heard the sound of the chair squeaking – had Sherlock turned to look at me? Hardly likely.

There was a sigh from his side of the room, though. I smiled to myself, pretended to peer even more determinedly out of the window.

"In case it's not blatantly obvious to you – seemingly not, your demeanour has confirmed that – I feel I should clarify that I, too, was disappointed that Lestrade texted me in the middle of…things."

'_Not a word, don't say a word…'_

"And I also feel the need to affirm to you that, at no stage, was I having second thoughts in the duration of time between my penetration and the text from Lestrade."

I battled to stay silent, desperately trying to blank out his voice. But the precise, mathematical terms that he was using to describe what happened made me reel slightly.  
He wasn't shutting up. Loves the sound of his own voice, that one.

"I realise now, that you will have taken the fact that I answered the text in the middle of fucking to mean that the fucking was of little importance to me – less importance, at least, than the prospect of a new case.  
I can verify that this isn't true. I place you at _just _as paramount an importance as my cases.  
It's just that…well…I've never had to choose between the two, before. Faced with the decision, I went with the option that was most familiar to me."

I heard the chair squeak again. He'd turned back – obviously figuring he'd won the debate (pretty one-sided debate, if you ask me. Which he never does).

He was typing, again, as he carried on talking, "I hope you will agree that it was the rational thing to do, that it was an act of impulse and nothing more. After all, I am, in essence, a rational, impulsive, being." From the tone of his voice, I'm guessing he felt very satisfied with his explanation.

I was too confused and irritated and just plain tied in knots by it all, so I thought it best not to answer.  
…Especially because Sherlock's explanation _did _make sense, which was terribly damaging to my ego. I'd started to hope I was _more_ important to him than his cases…not _just as. _Bloody buffoon Watson.

Sherlock was typing and crunching away again, and I didn't move or speak – which in my mind meant that the discussion was over. I forced everything out of my head, feeling my doubt and concern trickle away like water through a sieve, and concentrated all my energy on the street scene outside.  
It was a beautiful day. Bright, fresh, slightly cool – typical British weather, and God how it makes me want to run. I used to love running, in my army days. Route marches and mile hikes in full kit – dirt, dust, wind that could sting the eyes – really worked up a sweat, but the adrenaline rush – amazing. Not much else like it.  
Except being on a case. Being with _him.  
_I started to feel a little bit sick, tried to focus on something, _anything _outside that could distract me for long enough…

For some reason, I thought the sky had clouded over. Didn't even notice the six-ish foot body that had suddenly loomed into my peripheral vision.

Sherlock slid around in front of me as I stared down into the street – I couldn't tell if he was blocking my eye-line on purpose or not. Either way my concentration was broken, and I couldn't help focusing on the closeness of his body and mine – like a veil had fallen in front of me. I didn't look up at his face deliberately, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a chance to steal a quick kiss, as he likes to do quite a lot when he knows it's an inappropriate time. Then I peered around his left shoulder, trying again to keep watch of the street below. He huffed loudly, his whole upper body moving with the effort of it, and then crouched in front of me so that his head was level with my ribcage. I didn't look down – nope, wasn't going to encourage him – but then his hands started working at the buttons of my shirt and it embarrasses me to say that I sort of lost my cool. The no-talking thing went totally down the pan.

"Sherlock – Sherlock _get off." _He didn't get off. Buttons were undone to my navel now._ "_For _fuck's sake_, I'm trying to do what you asked me to here! Give it a rest!" I grabbed hold of his wrists and tried to wrestle him off me – I say tried; he might be a slim bloke but he's quite a good match for me in spite of all my training.

He looked up at me disappointedly when I finally managed to prise his fingers off of my shirt, his eyes big and strangely bright.

"I know I asked you to do it, John, but I think you're being a little obstinate. In fact I actually think that you're taking what I said at literal face value rather than being sensible because you want to punish me for what happened yesterday. I already told you: if Lestrade hadn't texted me, I would have ensured that you had an immensely satisfying orgasm."

"Sherlock!" There was some shocked laughter in the way I yelled at him.

"I know you don't like me to talk about sex in such frank terms." I could have hit him; he had such a smug grin on his face. "It may as well be an act, as far as I'm concerned – a show of propriety, because I've known you be _quite vocal _about what you'd like to do me, on occasion, and what you want me to do to you…"

"It's different…then. No one talks about that kind of stuff except when they're…" My weak argument trailed off. "And anyway, that's not even the issue. I just don't understand why you can't _ignore your phone _when you're…_doing stuff…_like most other _normal _people!"

"John…"

"What?"

"Oh, I don't know – 'Stuff'. _Stuff? _Can't you be more eloquent? Just say what you really _mean. _I'll ease you into it –" His hands moved down to my bare stomach; his fingers started to trace circles, "just say something about what you like me to do with my tongue, or where you like my hands to be…"

And there was me thinking he was going to resent me implying that he wasn't 'normal'.

"I – I – no! Sherlock! Don't do that! Don't turn this around and make it about my faults! You want to know why I'm pissed off with you – that's why! I'd appreciate being a bit more of a priority at those kinds of moments, and not just a distraction!"

"Well, stop whining and let me _prove _it to you…" His voice had that seductive purr to it that always manages to force whatever thoughts are in my head straight out through my ears.

The cold air as Sherlock yanked down my trousers was the first indicator of how hard I was – it hit my hot flesh and made my hair stand on end. His soft mouth was around the tip of my cock before I could say another word, and whatever I was going to say tumbled out of my mouth in a strangled moan. He sucked me hard and deliberately, so that I didn't have any time to relax between each wave of pleasure that engulfed me, so that I couldn't even think straight. He was loud and wet on purpose, and the sounds of his lips and tongue were the only noises in the room. Except me – but I didn't even know what I was doing. I couldn't feel my legs, no idea where my hands were. The only thing I was aware of was Sherlock – no, Sherlock's _mouth_ and what it was doing to me.

I came within minutes, swift and hot and messily, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind. Didn't complain, anyway. I couldn't open my eyes for what seemed like an hour afterwards, my body stuck in a strange, rapturous pose until my muscles finally relaxed and I remembered that I sort of had to breathe to live.  
Then I opened one heavy eyelid, looked at Sherlock. He was on his feet, dusting down his trouser legs. When he sensed my movement and flicked his eyes to mine, he looked thoroughly pleased with himself. Grinning like the sodding Cheshire Cat. Then he tilted his head and raised his eyebrows at me, as if he was waiting for…God, I don't know…_gratitude?  
_I frowned at him. Zipped up my trousers and folded my arms. His face instantly changed; like I'd slapped him.

"Oh what now? Surely you can't find anything else to complain about?"

I sighed. My head was swimming. "You have no idea how intimidating you can be at times, do you?"

Sherlock huffed loudly and flapped his arms; I could tell he was going to have one of his tantrums. "I give up. You _want _to orgasm, you _don't _want to orgasm…" He stared at me carefully, and then ran his hands messily through his hair, like he always does when he's frustrated about something. "I don't know – honestly – what am I supposed to do? I really don't have time for these mood swings, you know. There are many other things I –"

He started to turn away but I pulled him round by the shoulder, dragged his body against mine and kissed him slowly on the mouth. Pulling away, I looked up at his bewildered face, his eyebrow cocked and his eyes reading me carefully as if he'd missed something important.

"What–?"

"Not complaining. Just observing." I gave him a small smile. "Intimidating's fine. I can work with intimidating." I put my hands on his waist. "And you're amazing. _That _was amazing – not that your self-esteem needs any more of a boost."

"I _knew _it." Sherlock's smile was triumphant. "Sherlock Holmes: _excellent _at blowjobs." He nearly skipped into the kitchen.

I laughed at his back and then jogged upstairs to get cleaned up. The texting…_issue…_could wait, for now. I let him have his little victory, and saved my side of the argument for another time. Besides, it was almost half eleven.

When I came back into the living room, there was a woman I'd never met before sitting in my favourite armchair.

Till later,

Yours,

_**Dr. **__**John Watson**_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: __I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations._

_Author's Notes: Time to meet Sherlock and John's latest visitor – I'll be interested to know what you think of her! Hope this case turns out to be a pretty decent little mystery; planning to go into a bit more plot detail this time around. But I won't reveal too much before you've had a chance to read it :D – enjoy!_

_…_

_**Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal**_

**New Entry:**

Anna Parks. I don't really know where to start with her.

Seeing her sitting in our flat reminded me that I knew more or less nothing about her. Even Sherlock didn't have all that much to go on.  
Lestrade hadn't revealed anything about what she looked like, her background, her job – nothing. All Sherlock knew was that the background to her case had started in another country, and I didn't even have the time to ask him which one.

She turned to look at me as I walked through the door, and all I could think of was: sadness. It was almost in the air around her; it was as if it controlled all of her actions, all of her thoughts. She was quite attractive, in a pointed sort of way. But the sadness covered her like something heavy and dark, and it made her whole presence just awfully tragic. She was quite short and very slim, but the cloud over her seemed to have made her shrink into herself even more.

Her hair was blonde – not bright-white, or straw-coloured, but sort of shrouded with a greyish tinge. Her eyes were the colour of slate. Her skin was pale, like Sherlock's, but dull, and the lines of her face were slightly hollowed out with shadow. I guessed that she could've only been in her early thirties, but _something _had aged and weathered her to a shadow of her former self.  
The only colourful thing about Anna was her clothes. The style of them was understated, and yet still kind of – classy. A long, oversized shirt, slim black trousers, boots. But the _colour. _The shirt was a sort of deep, emerald green, and she wore a scarf in the same, jewel tone. Somehow, the colour gave her this touch of…grace. That's the only way I can put it, really. It put me on edge about her, but I couldn't take my eyes off of her. I wondered how much information Sherlock would be able to get out of her during this meeting, just so that I would know more about her.

"Ah, John. Miss Parks, this is my colleague – and close friend, Dr John Watson." Sherlock nodded vaguely in my direction, a small smile on his face.

I raised my eyebrows at him briefly. _That _was new. _Close friend? _Next he'd be telling people we share saliva.

"John, this is Anna Parks."

I smiled warmly enough, moved forward to shake her hand. She felt frail, fragile. I tried not to let my doctor's brain take over and start checking for anaemia.

"Dr Watson." Anna blinked slowly, only just smiling. Her voice was rich; every word she said had a careful tone to it. "I've heard of you – the papers. You're on his website." She looked over at Sherlock, whose face had lit up slightly at the mention of his pet project.  
"I looked you up last night. Lestrade gave you some rather…faint praise. I wanted to learn a little more about you before we met."

Sherlock's face was blank. I was dying to know what deductions he'd made about this woman; more importantly, I wanted to learn more about the case. He leant back in his chair a bit, crossed one of his long legs over the other.

"And yet I've been told virtually _nothing _about you." His fingers made their usual 'prayer' position. "John, aren't you going to sit down?"

I hadn't realised I wasn't. Moved into the nearest chair and tried to look calm and collected, when my mind was racing ahead.

Anna twisted her mouth slightly. Clearly she'd been building up the courage to talk about everything. I wanted to know why.

"You don't have to worry. Anything you say will be totally confidential." I tried to smile kindly, but I could feel Sherlock glaring at the side of my head. What? Wasn't I allowed to say _anything?_

Anna gave me another sad smile, and then dropped her head, staring at her hands in her lap.  
When she spoke, she sounded close to crying.

"I'm so desperately in need of your help – both of you – but I'm not sure where I should start. The reason I didn't give any information to Scotland Yard is because…honestly… I _couldn't. _It's all just the most dreadful mess, but I don't feel as if there's anyone I can discuss it with. It's sort of…delicate information, and not really mine to reveal."

"That didn't stop you contacting me." Sherlock's voice sounded sort of – _cold. _I knew how he was trying to approach this – not overly-familiar, not letting her get too off-topic. But I wasn't sure if it was the right approach. Anna seemed vulnerable – it brought out a protective instinct in me.

She raised her head; those were definitely tears in her eyes. "This far at least, my life and background are irrelevant. The story I have to tell you revolves entirely around someone else."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and brought his steepled fingers to his lips. _'I'll be the judge of whether something's irrelevant or not,' _his expression said to me.

Anna swallowed deeply, finally ready to tell us what we needed to know. I bit my lip, edged towards her slightly on my chair. I could tell this was going to be a crucial conversation.

"A friend of mine recently married a Belgian baron." Her voice steadied, the tears stopped. "He is still a native citizen of his country, but spends a lot of his time in England. He has a summer residence here: _Saules-Élancés_. My friend isn't of high birth like him, but they are deeply in love and married after just six months of knowing each other.  
The Baron has decided to move most of his life to England now, as his wife has a very close family and he doesn't want to force her to part from them. He brought over most of his household staff from Belgium and set them up in permanent residence in _Saules-Élancés_. His business abroad now is purely professional."

Sherlock shifted slightly in his chair. "Yes, Lestrade gave me a few details. The honourable Baron Mouseau, of Ypres…  
I take it _he _isn't aware of your visit – is his wife?"

"Yes – oh yes. She asked me to contact you; she's terribly worried about a member of staff in the household, but her husband refuses to discuss the issue. He thinks she's worrying unnecessarily, but I could tell by – from the way she described everything to me, that this is really very serious. Very serious indeed. I volunteered to help – and I believe that you will be able to resolve it."

I was still finding myself mesmerised by the soothing quality of Anna's voice; when I finally looked over at Sherlock to gauge his reaction, I was shocked to see him rolling his eyes.  
He tries not to get too involved in upper-class – especially aristocratic – cases. Unfortunately, they're the ones that pay best. But he says there's been too many time-wasters from 'that lot' (his words) – plus, they remind him far too much of his brother. Or at least, that's what I suspect.  
Anyway, I got the distinct feeling that he really couldn't be bothered to get involved in this sort of case again. Tough. I was determined to help; if only for the sake of Anna, who seemed to have taken on her friend's burden out of sheer concern for her, and her husband's reputation.

"You seem to care, very much, about a woman that isn't a direct relation of yours – and a man who could no doubt solve any problems with his…_staff_, very immediately – by firing them."

Anna blinked slightly, but didn't seem too fazed. I was impressed.

"No, no, Mr Holmes, it's not that simple. It isn't the member of staff that's _causing_ the trouble – she – Baron Mouseau's housekeeper – is _in_ the most terribletrouble. In trouble of her _life._" She swallowed – it sounded like she was fighting back tears again.  
"And I _do _care about the Baroness, very much," she mumbled. "She loves the Baron so very dearly, and this could easily _ruin _him. I – I can't – I could never sit by and let this scandal unfold without doing what I can to help."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes again – he looked like an animal with its prey in its sights. Then he nodded, bidding Anna to continue.  
She told us the rest without hesitating very much: the Baron brought over his Belgian housekeeper, a woman called Freija Jansen, to work for him and his new wife in England. She's been receiving anonymous death threats; not just one or two, either – she's been getting them for _months. _Didn't tell anyone at first, but they'd been getting more and more sinister, and eventually she panicked – told the Baron's wife everything, and she told her husband not long afterwards.  
Apparently, the writer of these letters knows about some scandal from the Baron's past – before he got married. And they want to use it to get hold of as much money as possible.  
The blackmailer told the housekeeper that if she didn't steal a multi-million pound sum from the Baron's bank vault, she would be murdered – and the Baron's secret revealed to the Belgian and British press.  
_He _still doesn't believe a word of it – told his wife to let it blow over and definitelynot to bother troubling the police with it.  
Of course, his wife was totally against this decision – the housekeeper has been in the Baron's employment for years, and deserved to be helped: not least because she risked her own safety – if not her life – by telling the family about the letters.  
And so Anna stepped in. She was reluctant to call Scotland Yard, and only really had to courage to carry things through when she heard that the world's only consulting detective was involved.

"Please, Mr Holmes –"

"Call me Sherlock."

Ooh, that was a good sign. He was smiling now, too – clearly the story had grabbed his attention at last.

"Sherlock, I – we_ need_ you to find out who this blackmailer is. _Please._ The Baron might not know that you're helping him, but I can assure you that he will be totally indebted to you. I don't think he has the slightest idea how grim this could get…I have serious reason to believe that Freija could end up…_murdered, _because of it all…" Her voice trailed off, and she toyed with the hem of her shirt, seemingly after losing her nerve again. The story had obviously affected her deeply.

"Your friend, the Baroness, is lucky to have you on her side, Miss Parks. And so is her housekeeper," I told her, sincerely. I wanted to tell her that we would do all we could to help, but Sherlock still hadn't shown much interest, and was ominously silent in his armchair.

"Anna, please – call me Anna." She was choking back tears again; I picked up the tissue box from the coffee table and handed it to her.

"Anna." That was Sherlock – still sitting in the same position, but his eyes were on fire.

We both turned to look at him.

"We'll take the case. Tell the Baroness that we're coming to visit her in three days' time, at _Saules-Élancés_. And I'll need to talk to Freija, see these letters. Also we need to try and find out if the Baron has any firearms in the house. That…should do, for now." He nodded to himself, and leapt out of his chair. Held out his hand to shake Anna's and gave me a sly sideways glance.

"Miss Parks – Anna. John will get you a taxi."

Anna stood, briefly smiled at me (probably saw my raised eyebrow), and shook Sherlock's hand.

"That's alright, thank you Sherlock – John. I have a lift home." She clasped Sherlock's elbow as they shook hands; the gesture seemed to take him off-balance slightly, but he soon recovered. Then she did the same to me.  
"I can't thank you enough for helping us. _All_ of us. It's good to know that I'm not completely useless in it all.  
I'll pass your message on – to the Baroness. She'll be glad of it."

And with another wan, small smile, she was gone.

…

I waited for the front door to slam before I turned back to Sherlock. Now we were alone again, even after what had happened this morning, the atmosphere between us was still – tense. I wasn't sure yet if last night was a one-off, or if he would keep on putting his work before me, no matter how close we got, no matter how much we shared. It was a really unpleasant thought. Sort of like knowing that doom was coming, but being powerless to stop it.  
I turned to him though, and he was smiling to himself, booting up his laptop. He sensed me from the corner of his eye and seemed slightly surprised that I wasn't still ignoring him.

"What do you think?" He was speaking quietly; there was something quite scheming in his tone.

"What do _I _think?" I repeated, always shocked by the question.

"Hm. Your input. Please. Any thoughts whatsoever." He stared at me expectantly.

"No pressure then…" I muttered. "As far as my opinion on the case goes – I think it could definitely be an important one. I think that's sort of obvious." I shrugged. "Anna didn't really give us much information, now I think about it – for starters, we don't know much about the Baron at all. Basically, it sounds like he's had a very…colourful past. And his wife – well she sounds like a decent, caring woman. I hope we can help them, I really do."

He didn't give away any sort of opinion on my answer so far. "And what about the housekeeper?"

"It can't be as clear-cut as Anna made out. I'm sure death threats aren't usually that clear-cut, that simple. I suppose, when we see the letters, we'll be able to learn a bit more about the blackmailing. Until then, I can't really pass any opinion on Freija. All I know is, if her life's in danger, we'd better try and catch that blackmailer as soon as possible."

I looked at Sherlock. He didn't say anything. _What? What more was there to say? _I tilted my head slightly, waited patiently. He tapped his top lip with one finger, carried on staring at me for a while, and then finally spoke.

"And Miss Parks? Anna? You must have an opinion on _her_."

I didn't have to be a proper genius to see what he was getting at. There was the tiniest hint of a smile on his face, and I smiled back, trying to look unaffected but failing by folding my arms protectively.

"Yes, I do…"

"It's obvious you find her…interesting," he prompted.

I couldn't tell, at that point, whether the fact that there was a chance I fancied Anna annoyed him or not. And whether his possible jealousy would flatter me, or offend me.  
I didn't fancy her, of course. She was pretty, in her overcast, slightly sad way. But that instant attraction wasn't there. I was only interested in her because of that strange atmosphere that seemed to be hanging around her. It was as if there was so much about her, hiding under the surface, that I couldn't help being intrigued.  
Sherlock had never struck me as the possessive type. And neither of us had made this…thing between us exclusive. It goes without saying – at least, as far as I'm concerned – that I don't see any reason to act like a single guy while we're…involved with each other: looking at other people…in _that _way, always trying to meet someone new, even without going out of my way to do it. I care a lot about him – mid-sex texting aside, and I wouldn't dream of hurting him in that way.  
…If he even cares that much, in the first place. I hope he does. I was a lot more sure about it…before. Now those doubts are creeping back.

Anyway, getting side-tracked, John. I'll come back to that later.

"She seems interesting, yes," I finally answered. I tried to read his face. Got nothing.

"Be careful, there." His smile seemed slightly strained. He turned back to his laptop, started tapping.

"You needn't worry."  
I meant this in every possible way. One: that Sherlock didn't have to worry about me fancying Anna. Two: that Sherlock didn't have to worry about me fancying _anyone else._ Three: that I'm no idiot. I don't need him to tell me to be careful.  
I wasn't sure which ones he picked up on – if any. He didn't look up from the screen.  
"I'm concerned about her," I explained.

"Hm – me too. Mainly because she is definitely keeping something from us."

This surprised me. "Are you sure? I didn't think so."

"Well – that's the power of manipulation." Still tapping on the keys. My hands made fists.

"And what makes you think I've been manipulated so easily?" I watched him typing for a few more seconds before a switch inside me flipped.  
"_Sherlock, look at me!_" He did.  
"It's not as if I fancy her or anything!" I flapped my arms slightly. The more Sherlock seemed closed-off, the more I started to lose my cool. I hadn't meant to blurt that out, but I felt better when I did.

"I know." His smile was slightly warmer, and I felt myself relax. If he didn't think I fancied her, then why did I think he might be irritated before?  
"It's that problem of yours again – _caring _too much." The word seemed to leave a bad taste in his mouth. "If you kept your emotions more detached in those situations, you would've been able to see Anna's deception much more easily."

I sighed sharply. "To be honest – I'm a bit more keen on keeping my emotions _attached_."  
I tried to bite back my next words, but there was no stopping them, "Not like you, obviously."  
They came out slightly quieter, but that didn't help much.

Sherlock did something unexpected then. Shut his laptop, actually turned in his chair to look at me. He bit his lip; I could tell he was trying to speak as carefully as he could.

"Look, I know you're still unhappy about last night. It looked, this morning, like you might try and 'breeze past it'. Didn't really work, did it?"

I avoided his eye, straightened my shoulders awkwardly and tried to put on a brave front.

"You didn't even apologise." The words sounded lame as soon as I'd said them. But I honestly thought that an apology from Sherlock would be the best way for me to work towards forgiving him, trusting him more again. It would mean that he cared, that he wanted to work towards resolving the issue. "I still don't really know what position it's left me in. Where I factor, in your list of priorities. After 'the game'? _Before _Inspector Lestrade?"

Sherlock gave me a half-hearted smile; ran a hand through his hair. My stomach clenched while I waited for his answer. Then I realised I still wasn't really ready for it.

"John –"

"But never mind," I interrupted, "we've got a case on. I know that's very important for you, so I'm not going to mention last night any more. Not till the case is over. Seems like the safe way to go." I might've sounded resentful, but I wasn't. Not really. I was trying to be understanding, to show him that he doesn't _have _to put me first, that I don't expect it. Just as long as he doesn't treat me like I _am_ first, for weeks on end, and then drop me as soon as something more interesting comes along. It's not just an ego-buster. It makes me care too much.

Sherlock peered carefully at me, then nodded quickly, once. Looked like he was thinking things through.

"Does that mean we can still sleep together?"

There was a strange spasm in my chest. I hadn't expected him to say _that_.

"Yes…I suppose so…yes."

He nodded again. Once. Quickly. Then he narrowed his eyes and leaned towards me slightly, "Does that mean we can still try for fourth base?"

My eyebrows nearly merged with my hairline, "No! _No_. And _definitely _never while it's pre-planned. There's no way I'm agreeing to that again." Sherlock frowned slightly. "It just leaves too much scope for disappointment."

Sherlock watched me for a few seconds longer, before he looked down at the floor, and his eyes unfocused. He was filing things away, in his 'hard-drive'. Then he rubbed his hands messily through his hair, turned back to his laptop, and carried on with his research. He didn't say anything else about it.

I felt mid-way between doing a lot of things all at once. Mainly, I wanted either: to throw something (breakable – at the wall, not at Sherlock); to crawl under my bed and hide there for a few days (helped when I was five); to demand that Sherlock put down that bloody laptop for once in his life and…just…_kiss _me; and to go for a long, long walk in the fresh air.

I chose the last option. Slipped out so quietly that I don't think he even noticed I was gone.  
He probably didn't notice.

…

When I came in, a couple of hours later, Sherlock was waiting on the sofa.  
He says he wasn't waiting.  
If he wasn't – It's a bloody wonder how I found myself pressed against the wall, struggling for breath between kisses, before I'd even got my coat off.

Yours,

_**Dr. John Watson**_


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: __I wrote this story with no intention of plagiarising the writers of the BBC 'Sherlock' series, or any previous Sherlock Holmes stories/adaptations._

_Author's Notes: Apologies for the long wait – hopefully it will be worth it. Don't want to give anything away, so just read and enjoy!_

_…_

_**Files:: Personal Documents:: Protected:: Dr John Watson: Private Journal**_

**New Entry:**

I tried to push Sherlock off of me, tried saying his name repeatedly against his lips in an attempt to get him to stop.

I say tried. I wasn't trying all that hard. To be honest, after a few attempts, I started to enjoy the kissing too much to remember to do anything else. In the end, I was sort of giggling his name, making appreciative noises and trying not to suck on his bottom lip, while my hands frantically scrabbled through his hair.  
He was kissing me as if I'd been gone for days, not hours. Hugging his arms around me and kneading the muscles in my back, pushing himself up against me and backing me up the wall so that I was in danger of being lifted clean off the ground – I'm not the tallest of people, after all. It was like he'd almost forgotten what it was like to kiss me, and needed plenty of reminding. His eyes were screwed tight and his nose was wrinkled, giving him that look of intense concentration that he always gets when he's analysing something thoroughly, cataloguing it in his memory. It fascinated me, and apart from being distracted by the deeply sensual kissing, I was totally absorbed in watching him. He was paralyzing.  
He's been like that with me before – but those times, I'd felt exactly the same. After we'd escaped from _The Black Hart, _for example. That time, we'd faced our mortality and lived. And sharing the experience with each other only made our need for each other – our need to rediscover that sense of liberty and rejoice in it together – all the more natural. Could be completely understood for attacking each other in that crazy, lust-soaked way, like it was the extension of our extreme relief and sense of accomplishment. But this time…

'_OK, I _did _just put a sex ban on him and leave the flat without telling him where I was going…didn't I? Surely he should be _slightly _mad at me? And not trying to, almost literally, eat my face?'_

It didn't really make sense. But when his fingers moved through the short hairs at the back of my neck, I sort of forgot to care what made sense and what didn't.  
I moaned, quite loudly, against his mouth. Which seemed to be all that he wanted from me. He broke the kiss just as harshly as he'd started it, leaving me gasping for air, but kept me pinned to the wall, one of his long-fingered hands trapping one of my arms.  
He used the other hand to brush a few strands of hair from my forehead, and started studying me in that incisive way with his pale, piercing eyes.

"I said: 'can I borrow your laptop'?"

I didn't react in my usual way: snapping at him because he'd obviously asked the question hours ago, while I was out, and didn't care enough about where I'd been to ask me anything else before repeating it as soon as I got back.  
Instead, I listened to the tone of his voice: low, quiet, kind of soothing. And I watched the way he moved: hand stroking through my hair, eyes searching my face, muscles tense.  
It helped. I realised: this, and the kiss, was his sociopathic way of telling me he'd been worried about me. And Jesus, _how _worried.  
I smiled.

"Sorry I didn't tell you where I was going, Sherlock."

He twisted his mouth; moved his hand from my hair to run two fingertips down the middle of my chest. We both watched their slow trail.

"I didn't realise you'd gone." His tone wasn't petulant, but soft, so I knew what this meant too. Not that he hadn't missed me. Quite the opposite. His eyes moved back to mine, and I felt my throat catch.

I took his face in both my hands and kissed him slowly, deeply. He relaxed into me, his lips still hungry for me but not as frenzied, and he released a deep breath when we broke contact – without noticing, I think.

"Why do you need my laptop?" I asked. He'd gone all distracted, now, his eyes wandering to the middle distance.

"No battery left on mine. The charger's in the bedroom," He said vaguely, rubbing his face with one hand.

"So – hang on, you – you can't even – oh, never mind. Yeah, use mine. I've got a –"

"New password, yes. I know. Is that something to do with the journal again?" I felt myself flush red. "Don't worry," he smiled, obviously finding his sense of humour again, "I won't pry. I figured out the password yesterday, though."

I opened and closed my mouth like a stranded fish for a few seconds, before giving up on trying to explain my right to privacy to him. He'd already rushed over to my laptop and started booting up anyway.

…

"Can I help?"

It was almost two am, and Sherlock was still on the internet, hunched over the screen like a man possessed. I'd tried going to bed – didn't feel the same without him, so after about an hour of pretending to sleep, I came back downstairs. Stood awkwardly in the doorway to the living room in my pyjamas and a dressing gown, my hair standing up at odd angles.  
I didn't really know how I could help, and I knew Sherlock only really asked me to when it was necessary – but I wanted to be there, anyway.  
I felt a bit guilty, actually. Even though Sherlock had been the one that had caused me all that doubt, even though he was the one that didn't seem to be making any steps forward in his feelings towards me at all, while I'm…well, I can _feel _things changing – inside me. I have an idea what's happening to me, but I can't face up to it yet. I'm not going to give it a name – not until Sherlock starts to change, in the same way. And I hope he will.  
I felt guilty because I sometimes forget how vulnerable Sherlock is. I know – that word doesn't really suit him; but I don't mean vulnerable in the usual sense. He's not physically weak, or mentally incapable, by any means. But he's spent virtually all of his life on one set path, followed it with all his determination and kept relentlessly on-track – to the extent that he's sometimes unintentionally starved himself, or gone for days without sleep. His excessive determination is what makes him such a brilliant detective – but it also means that everything else in his life has been almost dangerously neglected. And when he's so spectacularly brilliant at catching criminals, it's easy to forget that there are so many things he's never done…like: he's never been in a relationship before.  
Bit of on-the-spot deduction, there. I'm catching on.

So in the time between me going out for a walk, coming back, being kissed like I'd just come back from a six month military tour, and failing to go to bed, I realised that I'd have to give Sherlock a bit of slack. I won't be able to forgive him for what he did – not straight away, anyway. But I'll be able to understand _why _he did it. He just needs to learn that it's OK to stray off the path a little bit – sometimes.  
For me, if no one else.  
The world won't stop. And neither will the murders.  
I didn't say any of this to him though. Instead, I asked if I could help. I thought this might communicate my understanding, in a Sherlock-borderline-sociopathic kind of way.

He looked up at me from the screen – his eyes looked sore, and dark rings were starting to form underneath them. My doctor's brain started to diagnose muscle strain and the onset of deep fatigue but I forced myself to ignore it. Problem with a guy like Sherlock is: you tell him what's wrong with him medically and he takes it as a character assassination – like you've just called him incompetent, or something. Safe to say I stopped trying to give him medical advice quite a while back.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," he said first, smirking slightly. I knew he wasn't saying it because he was worried about how much sleep I was going to get – more likely because he _knew _why I wasn't sleeping and wanted to make me say it out loud.

"It wasn't working for me." I shrugged. Came to sit next to him at the laptop. Since he hadn't refused my help straightaway I assumed he didn't mind me hanging around.

Sherlock looked me up and down in a fraction of a second and smirked again. Then he started tapping at the keyboard and pulled up a website on the screen, with a picture of a middle-aged man in the top left corner and some kind of crest at the top.

"Baron Mouseau?"

"Hmm. He has a very carefully constructed, virtually impenetrable public profile:_ very _useful for a man with a past he'd rather put behind him. I've been trying to hack into his personal file for two hours – no joy. _This_ is his…'official' site. Mostly politically-authorised stuff. Utterly useless."

I leaned in closer to study the picture. He was quite a handsome man, the Baron – in a way that was almost excessively noble: chiselled, pointed…you get the idea. His hair was short and blond-grey, swept back severely from his hairline, and he had neatly-trimmed facial hair to match. His eyes were pale grey, incredibly cold and sort of…calculating. Everything about him shouted someone who was fiercely ruthless and determined. The sort of chap that won't take shit from anyone (and I mean _government _anyone).  
Just from a few seconds' glance, I could completely understand why the Baron's wife might want to keep mine and Sherlock's investigations a secret from him. Men like him don't think twice about causing diplomatic incidents – and they have enough money to make sure that things always go their way. If this blackmailing turned out to be as serious as Anna had implied, he'd want to brush it under the rug as soon as possible – and police types snooping around (freelance or not) would only complicate that for him. I'm sure his lawyers could draw up a law suit against Scotland Yard quicker than Sherlock could identify the kind of coffee the Baron liked from his toothbrush.

A thought suddenly occurred to me. I hesitated to put it to Sherlock, though – knew he'd hate me suggesting it, and come up with excuses no matter how sensible the idea was. Ah, sibling rivalry. Delightful as always.

"You know – if you need more information about Mouseau, you could always ask your broth–"

"_No._"

I rolled my eyes, "C'mon Sherlock, you must've thought of it too. If anyone can dig up some need-to-know dirt on the Baron, it's Myc–"

"I can't ask him."

"You…you _can't_?" I tried not to snigger. "Or you don't want to?"

"Both." He turned to look at me. "I can't – and _won't _– because if I try to involve him in something international he'll stomp in like an Imperial _elephant_ and try to take over the whole thing in the name of Her Majesty's government."  
When I didn't react, he started to get dramatic.  
"Oh, _come on _John, you can imagine it as well as I can:" He put on a spectacular impersonation of Mycroft, "_It is a matter of paaar-aaa-moouunnt importance, Sherlock – int-er-naaaa-tional rel-aaaaa-tions…_Blah blah blah." He was gesturing as if he was twirling Mycroft's black umbrella.  
"He'd just ruin everything." I was surprised he didn't cap the whole thing off by folding his arms like an eight year old.

"OK, OK, fine. He's your best chance, though – and you know it."

"Wrong, John, _I'm _my best chance. Mycroft is surplus to requirements."

I smiled to myself, leaned back in my chair, away from the screen, and looked at the back of Sherlock's head.

"Well, yeah. You know best. You always do." I scratched my head, biding for time, daring myself to ask the question. In the end, I think I just wanted to tempt fate.  
"You've got this covered then, I suppose…In the bag. Know exactly what you're going to do, how you're going to do it…"

He finally got the hint. Straightened up in his chair, but didn't turn to look at me.

"Am _I _surplus to requirements, too?" My mouth suddenly went dry. I tried to cover up the fact that I'd only been half-joking, "Because, y'know, there's the shopping to do and stuff…need…bread…" I trailed off, already kicking myself inside for showing insecurity when I know Sherlock really can't handle it.

He turned to look at me. His face was a picture of disbelief and concern, only for a fraction of a second – blink-and-you'll-miss-it stuff – before he smiled.

"Relax, John."

And then he put his hand on my leg, moved slowly and reassuringly up my thigh, and all I could _do_ wasrelax.  
I wasn't going to make him explain himself to me; he'd obviously not put much thought into what effect his comment about Mycroft might have on me; still not really used to how my mind works.  
I'm a paranoid bastard, at times. And recent events haven't helped.  
I'll blame the army – it's always been my scapegoat.

I put my hand carefully on top of Sherlock's and squeezed it for a second. Gritted my jaw and hoped the moment would pass as quickly as possible.

Sherlock watched my expression, blinking slowly. "I saw the way you looked at Mouseau's picture: pertaining to your question. If that's anything to go by, you know _exactly _the type of man we're dealing with here. Therefore I'm quite sure you'll be able to use your natural instincts accordingly to your advantage in this case.  
As always," he added, and smiled warmly.  
Then his face fell again and he peered at me a little bit more closely, "That is, if you were asking me about the case…?" He raised his eyebrows, tried searching my face for a response.

I couldn't look him in the eye. My pyjama top suddenly felt stifling, a clammy heat rising up my neck. Why do I put myself in these situations? Oh, yeah – because I'm an idiot.  
He was giving me the opportunity to talk about my feelings – I knew that straightaway. But it wasn't the right time and I'd been stupid for bringing the subject up _again, _basically just to torture myself…and him.  
Sherlock's shoulders tensed up slightly, and I didn't want him to worry, so I drew myself up closer to his body – also for my own reassurance, I think. He shifted position in his chair slightly, parting his knees so that one of my legs slid in-between his, and we were within touching distance. I didn't reach out for him with my hands, just leaned forward so I could press my forehead against his collar bone, and rested my arms on his knees. I could feel him breathing underneath me – slowly, softly, as if he was terrified I might break into pieces, like some fragile thing. Something warm and soft – had to be his mouth – was resting gently against the side of my head.

"I'm sorry." I sighed, speaking softly because he was less than an inch away. "I don't know what's the matter with me lately."  
Lie. I _did _know, I just didn't dare tell Sherlock – or make the words true by saying them out loud.  
"I think I just need to go to bed." I did move my hand then: traced it down Sherlock's arm and lightly grabbed at his sleeve.

"Right. Alright." Sherlock didn't move.

"Are you coming too?" I asked, hoping I wouldn't have to drive myself mad with insomnia without him, warm, next to me. I moved away from him slightly, though, and let go of his arm – so he wouldn't feel pressured. I'd no idea how much more he was planning to do on the case before he finally decided to sleep.

Sherlock watched me move, then turned to look at the laptop screen again. There was a few seconds' silence while he ran the options through in his mind. Then he hit the 'power off' button, closed the screen and turned to me with a small smile.  
He took me completely off-balance by grabbing hold of my hand. I blinked slowly at him for a few seconds before standing up and leading him silently to our bedroom.

He didn't let go of my hand all night.

…

Sherlock had pictures of _Saules-Élancés _to show me next morning, when I came downstairs.

He was in quite a chipper mood, in spite of my odd behaviour the night before. And I wasn't going to spoil that.  
I'd woken up feeling pretty positive too, and decided to distract myself by focusing all my energy on the case, for a while – especially as the Baron was proving to be quite a tough nut to crack.

"I was wondering what you might make of it, John." He swivelled the screen in my direction as I sat at the kitchen table, warming my hands on the mug of coffee he'd managed to predict that I'd want.

To someone like me, who's never really had an interest in British architecture – or anything particularly grand – the place just looked like your typical, very-big house. Redbrick, very symmetrical, and those white leaded windows that you always see in period dramas. In fact, that's what it reminded me of: 'Pride and Prejudice'. Not my favourite film by any stretch – I hate anything too mushy, with people poncing around in those stuffy, fussy costumes. But I could definitely imagine _Saules-Élances_ as the perfect set for it. It was quite a beautiful place, in its own way. But too rigid, too uniform, to be homely. I definitely prefer living somewhere like 221b – comfortable, humble, just enough room for all my stuff. Somewhere where I know I'm safe, where the outside world is still there, but is far enough away not to matter when I shut my front door.  
The description underneath the pictures was about as brief as the Baron's profile. There were a few brief sentences about its history, but nothing that looked all that useful to the case (as far as I could tell).

"It's not all that extravagant really, is it? For a baron's home, that is. Most people love bragging about living in these kinds of places, but it looks like they're trying to keep things as low key as possible." I looked at Sherlock, and he shrugged his mouth in what I assumed was agreement. "Suits Mouseau pretty well though, I'd guess. Not the type to go in for self-promotion."  
"What do _you_ think?" I asked, wondering if I'd missed anything – which was definitely likely.

"I think I'll reserve judgement until we visit the place," he murmured, not disputing my opinions but not exactly agreeing with them, either.  
I wondered why he was being so enigmatic, but then he scrolled down the page a bit and pointed out a couple of short sentences.  
"This is the only bit of information about Mouseau on the site." He leant back in his chair, folded his arms.

I looked at him for a few seconds, waiting for a cue. He obviously wasn't going to tell me why these sentences were important, so I leaned forward and read the screen myself.

"The house's current resident is Baron L. Mouseau. He shares his home with his wife, Rose, and divides his time between England and Belgium. The Baron is the house's tenth owner in the past three-hundred years, rescuing it from disrepair after its previous owners were forced to leave and the house was briefly subject to some serious vandalism. The house, in its current, tastefully-refurbished state, is currently not available for public visits or functions, but private tours may be arranged at the Baron's discretion. Please call…" I trailed off. Couldn't really see why Sherlock wanted me to read it, so I didn't pass comment. Just nodded in what I hoped was a faintly intelligent way, and risked a sideways glance at him to gauge his reaction.

"Better than nothing, I suppose," he commented. "At this stage, any information we can get could be considered useful, in a broad sense. We've been so grossly under-informed so far that any sort of lead could be considered worthwhile." He sighed in annoyance.

I sensed he was keeping something back, but I didn't know why or what it could possibly be. The silence was slightly awkward, so I filled it.

"So we have a small head start then," I nodded towards the laptop screen, "before we visit Mouseau's place." I rubbed the back of my neck. "Can't help but think that we've barely scratched the surface, though.  
God knows what we're going to find in that house. God knows if we'll even be _allowed in. _I mean, what if the Baron finds out we're there and gets us kicked out?"

Sherlock quirked his mouth, nodded gravely. "It's a possibility. One that I haven't overlooked. If the Baroness doesn't have the common sense to make sure that her husband isn't at home when we visit – well, we'll have to risk it. Or come back at a more convenient time."

"You know, we're doing these people a favour. But why do I feel like we're breaking in to this guy's house?"

"Comes with the territory. People don't often realise what's good for them. Especially where _I'm _concerned." Sherlock smiled wistfully. Sometimes I wonder just how much it bothers him that barely anyone seems to understand him; to realise how brilliant he is.

"They usually change their minds, though – in the end," I reminded him, giving him a warm smile as my chest sort of swelled up with something like pride. It's true: even Sherlock's worst critics can't deny that he is a complete genius when it comes to solving cases.  
Personally, I could gush about Sherlock's merits from dawn till dusk, and not just because of how close we are in other ways. I know he'll always be the most amazing, most intelligent, most talented person I've ever met, and no one else will compare.

"The clever ones do," he agreed, and couldn't help but smirk when I laughed out loud at his infallible self-confidence.

…

I think we'd both resigned ourselves to thinking that we wouldn't get any more information until we visited _Saules-Élances, _so for the next few hours we just pottered around the flat. Sherlock sent the occasional text and tried every so often to try and hack into Mouseau's personal file again, but he wasn't crazed with determination like he is when the end of a case is in sight, and didn't seem too disappointed when he didn't manage to get any further. I watched trashy telly, made us coffee, the usual – and tried to appreciate these few hours as a precious period of silence and calm before we got swept up in another intrigue. It's those times that I can just sit and watch Sherlock, use those brief periods when he isn't dashing around like a maniac to take in all the details of his appearance, sort of commit them to memory. It's so rare that he's as calm as that, and somehow, it makes him even more fascinating. There are so many small details to him that everyone else never sees, and that I hardly ever see. I've learnt to make the most of them.

He doesn't seem to mind me looking. I won't fool myself into thinking he doesn't notice – that's pretty much impossible, for him.

I was midway through watching the movements of his lips while he whistles (yep, surprised me too – usually classical stuff, and only when he's totally distracted), when there was a knock at the door.  
Sherlock was in the middle of another hacking experiment, so he waved silently for me to go check without looking up from the screen. I raised my eyebrows and looked around the room, bemused, at no one in particular, before pulling myself out of my armchair and heading downstairs. "I'll get it then…" I muttered as I passed Sherlock.

It was Lestrade. He smiled apologetically at me as I stepped aside to let him in: for some reason, he always seems to regret having to visit the flat, as if it's the last thing he wants to do and _knows _it's the last thing Sherlock wants. He's still so pretentious about being openly involved with Scotland Yard's investigations, and Lestrade still seems kind of uneasy about being on Sherlock's territory, as if it gives him too much of an advantage, and leaves more opportunity for Lestrade to wind up looking stupid. It's fascinating to be in a room with the both of them: 'Clash of the Egos', I call it.

I expected Sherlock not to take any notice of the DI when he walked into the room – he likes to play it extremely cool, even if he's absolutely dying for a new case. Surprisingly, though, he shot up from his chair when he saw Lestrade.

"What is it?"

I was shocked to hear the concern in his voice; his stare was fixed on the DI in a way that made a cold shudder run through me. Clearly, he hadn't been expecting this. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other nervously, not sure if I wanted to hear what Lestrade had to say.  
Lestrade grimaced slightly, his hands moving in his pockets as if they were making fists. I could tell he was regretting having to give us this news. And to think, when I'd first opened the door, that I'd been almost excited, thinking he was going to give us an important lead.

"I'm not gonna pretend that you're ignorant about this whole thing – obviously you're involved, I mean why wouldn't you be? I knew you'd take the case, there's _money_ involved, for Christ's sakes, and –"

"_Lestrade._"

"There's been a murder in Hampshire." Lestrade's gaze was level, stony. He knew he didn't have to elaborate.

"Freija Jansen." Sherlock had actually blanched. He ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes, before moving his hands to his lips in their 'prayer' position.

"What? The housekeeper?" My voice was a little too loud, puncturing the tense silence in the room. "That's impossible! What about the money –?"

"Not impossible," Sherlock muttered. His throat sounded dry. "Improbable. Unlikely. But it's happened."

"But – _how?_" I stressed.

I wasn't sure how much Lestrade knew – or how much Sherlock wanted him to know – so I didn't say any more; but things just weren't adding up. The blackmailer couldn't have got sick of waiting for the money already_ – _Freija had been getting those letters for _months. _And she couldn't have decided to give everything up, surely, knowing that Sherlock and I were investigating.Then there was Mouseau's 'secret'. There hadn't been any breaking news announcements – Sherlock would've made sure we didn't miss them – so the blackmailer couldn't have decided to reveal it. It just seemed _wrong. _She _couldn't _have been murdered – the case had barely got off its feet.

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "That's not all."

Sherlock looked slightly unsteady, like he needed something to hold on to. I think he'd anticipated what Lestrade was going to say next, and was reacting in advance. I was still blissfully ignorant of the situation, as ever.

"Jansen's disappearance wasn't the main reason we were first called to _Saules-Élancés. _The Baron called us, in the first place, to report the abduction of his wife."

His_ wife? _I widened my eyes at Sherlock, who had sat himself on the arm of his armchair, his eyes glazed as his brain worked at a startling pace.

"I can't understand this," I mumbled, filling the void left by Lestrade's awkward silence and Sherlock's intense thinking. "Why her? She's got nothing to do with it."

Sherlock snapped from his trance, and looked at me almost sympathetically. "Oh, John. She has _everything _to do with it."

I was still confused. "What? Rose? Why?"

"Anna."

"Anna? ...Anna Parks? I thought we were talking about Rose Mouseau."

"We are."

I glanced at Lestrade, who was impassive. He'd sat down on the sofa, head in his hands, obviously keeping out of the conversation, probably waiting for his cue to leave.

"Behave, Sherlock," I scolded, lowering my voice slightly. "I haven't got a clue what you're getting at, but this is _important _and –"

Sherlock sighed, stood up and moved towards me; as if standing closer would help me understand him more easily.

"Anna Parks and Rose Mouseau." He put out his hands to represent them both, then brought both hands together, "One and the same person." When I didn't say anything, but had obviously understood, he went on, "Rose is short for Roseanna: Roseanna (or _Anna_) Parks, before she married Baron Mouseau of Ypres."

"Christ," I breathed. "So she made up all that stuff about being Rose's friend – didn't want us to know who she really was."

My mind was gradually catching up to Sherlock's; things were slotting into place a bit too quickly for me to keep up with them. The first thing I remembered was what Sherlock had said the day before.

"That's why you said she was keeping something from us." I suddenly felt like the world's biggest idiot.

Sherlock nodded. He didn't need to be smug about it; knew how I'd feel once I realised that he was completely right, when he'd said that my emotional attachment to cases leads to me missing the facts. And I'd used it as an excuse to insult him. To try and make him feel guilty…

"It's obvious: a woman with no blood ties to the Baron and his wife would _not _get involved in a case like this, just out of kindness. _No one _is that kind. Lives are at stake." He shook his head, correcting himself, "One less life, as the toll currently stands."

I rolled my eyes at his insensitivity, but didn't call him up on it. "She _was_ crying an awful lot for someone who had nothing to lose."

Sherlock nodded grimly. I could feel my nerves like a warm pool in my stomach; a need to make amends with him after the day before, after I'd been so short-sighted and he'd actually been so…_right. _As always. I usually judge his suspicion as coldness; now I reminded myself that it's his suspicion that helps him to be the genius he is, and I shouldn't be so quick to put him down, especially when it's more likely to be me that's got things all wrong.  
I couldn't express any of this though, because Lestrade was still in the room. He was looking at us both curiously now, obviously intrigued by what we'd been saying. Even though it was obviously our case – abducted or not, Anna had still entrusted us with finding the blackmailer – it was clear that he was wondering if he might be able to get to the bottom of things himself. Can't really blame him for wanting some of the glory, when Sherlock hogs it most of the time.

A thought suddenly occurred to me. "Why didn't you say anything? If you knew Anna was Mouseau's wife."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, "It seemed like the correct thing to do at the time. Wanted her to feel that she could trust us, knew that she was withholding the truth for an important reason – important to _her, _at least." He sat down again, tearing his hands roughly through his hair in a way that made me want to smile inappropriately. "I didn't even consider that she might be abducted, or that the housekeeper would be killed – not so soon, anyway."

He would probably beat himself up for this for days. I chewed on my bottom lip for a while, as I processed everything that'd happened. Sherlock looked over at Lestrade, slightly mystified, as if he'd forgotten he was there, and wrinkled his nose slightly.

"Do you have any more _news _for us, Inspector?" His tone was slightly scathing. Made me wince.

"We've been to the house. Jansen had been pushed down the stairs, looks like. Baron found her first, then reported his wife missing a couple of hours later, when she wouldn't answer her phone."

"And how did you find out that she'd been abducted?"

"Well, we don't know that she _has _been, yet. She's just reported missing so far. We were hoping that you might be able to find out more – once you've been to the place."

Sherlock flapped his arms, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Then who suggested abduction?" He snapped.

"That was Mouseau's guess. Thinks they want to get to him – whoever 'they' are. Same people who bumped off the help, presumably."

I rubbed my face with exasperation – Sherlock was showing his emotions a lot more obviously.

"I think I'll refrain from adapting his terminology in future, until I've had chance to evaluate the situation properly myself." He was drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair in irritation.  
"It looks like the task of finding Anna will fall to us, then. But first thing's first: will the Baron permit us to visit the house, now that our commission has disappeared from the face of the earth?"

"Like I said, I've had the team combing the place since he made the call, in the early hours. He said he's got no problem with you two going over there, but not until tomorrow – said he's seen enough of 'our lot' for one day."

Sherlock's mouth made a hard line; his eyes narrowed. I wondered how many insults were filtering through his brain.

"Fine." He looked at me for a second; a strange expression flickered over his face, then disappeared.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd keep us up to date on what you find – not every hour on the hour, but, y'know." He shrugged. "I know Anna was your commission, but the case has blown wide open now, so if –"

"_Is._"

"…Pardon?"

"_Is. _Anna _is _our commission. Bit presumptuous to use the past tense – but you're jumping ahead, I suppose. Excited that at the possibility of actually achieving something as an investigative team, are we?"

Sherlock's smile was almost acidic. I felt myself getting tense – didn't want things to start getting nasty, just because Sherlock was in a bad mood. Lestrade's a powerful man, after all.

"Just…keep me posted, alright Holmes?" The DI's voice was stiff. He was reigning himself in; knew that any leads we might get would be vital to the case, and he couldn't afford to put us out of the picture.

Sherlock stood up quickly, picked up his violin from the coffee table as he walked out of the room and paced quickly upstairs. I heard the violent scratching of the bow against the strings from the bedroom as I showed Lestrade out as politely (and quickly) as possible.

…

It wasn't the most productive day. Knowing he couldn't do anything for at least another twelve hours had made Sherlock almost unbearably restless; he'd played violin almost manically for a few hours, hoping that it would help him think things through, before stomping around the flat looking in various books and checking websites on both laptops. When this had proved worthless too, he'd sat in his favourite chair in the ugliest funk, arms wrapped around his knees, frowning so intensely at the wall that I thought it might crack.

Finally, I'd suggested dinner – my homemade lasagne – which he'd barely touched, whilst ignoring any attempts I'd made at conversation.

Halfway through the meal, he'd given up on eating altogether, and had decided instead to pass the time by watching me eat. At least that's what I think he was doing. He kept watching the fork moving to my mouth and back again, his eyes getting alternately wider and narrower every so often, his head tilting to one side if I did anything between bites, like accidentally getting sauce in the corner of my mouth, or taking a sip from my glass of wine. I thought about asking him what he was doing, and then decided against it. Probably best not to know.

When it became obvious to him that I was going to keep eating, whether he watched me like a hawk or not, he seemed to get bored. Pushed his chair out from the table and stalked away, picking up his violin for another tuneless rendition. Thankfully, he kept to the bedroom again.

He stayed up there until I came to bed. Got in with me without me having to ask, still staying silent, but not looking as intensely frustrated as he was.

I was concerned about him – really, I was. The case was looking damned impossible, and I had absolutely no idea how we'd be able to sort things out. Could hardly imagine how much it was upsetting Sherlock. What he needed was distracting. Reassuring. But I remembered the ultimatum that I'd given him before, and was cautious about just how far I should go to help him.

I wanted to reassure him. To calm his anxieties as if that would somehow cure mine. I tucked my arm carefully round his waist and drew him in towards me, tucking my knees in slightly to create a barrier, so he wouldn't mistake my intentions. He let himself be guided, but his expression stayed closed to me. I stroked one side of his face gently; his eyes flickered up to meet me, but that was all.

"What can I do?" I let my thumb move lightly across his cheekbone and down over his lips.

Sherlock searched my face with his eyes. I felt his palm press gently into my chest – not pushing, just touching.

"In this instance, nothing that requires an exceptional amount of effort," he sighed. A small smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.  
"I tend to find that simply being the man that you are is enough to reassure me on many occasions," he admitted. "You have an inner strength that never ceases to exhibit itself in your outward behaviour. It helps me during periods of personal indecision."

"That's funny."  
Sherlock looked perplexed at the statement. I shook my head to show that I wasn't being literal.  
"I always thought _you _were the one with the inner strength. Even though you get…stuck at these crossroads, every once in a while, you never seem to suffer from self-doubt. Like me. I'm really only a tough guy on the outside."

Sherlock chuckled. I wanted to feel his chest against mine, but managed to keep the distance.

"I think you're confusing inner strength with being a worrier, in your case." He smiled. "Just because you over-analyse the unimportant things, doesn't mean you're weak."

I wasn't sure how to take that, but he didn't give me time to think.

"Kiss me."

"…What?"

"Kiss me. That's what you can do." He nuzzled his mouth against the hand that I still held to his face.

I cleared my throat; tried to ignore the watery feeling in my knees. Sherlock edged closer, and I inhaled the breath that he'd just sighed out, his scent suddenly overwhelming.  
His mouth found mine before I'd had time to move – so technically, _he _kissed _me. _But who gives a damn about technicalities. His kisses always floor me.  
There was me, thinking that 'kiss me' meant a quick peck on the lips. Nope. What it _actually _meant was tongues, nibbling, sucking, hands in hair – the whole shebang. And it's very difficult not to get carried away with that sort of thing, especially when Sherlock makes it so damn enjoyable.

Before I knew it, he was pressed against me, the slight pressure of his belly against mine trying to roll me onto my back. I felt his weight half on top of me and started to feel very, _very _warm under the bed sheets, only aware of the very small space that we were now occupying together. He inched his slender hand under my pyjama top and raked his nails gently down my chest, making my back arch off the bed as my hunger translated itself into a fiercer kiss.

His hand moved down my stomach, hovered over the waistband of my pyjama bottoms. I only had a second to register it before he started to press slow, damp kisses against my jaw and down my neck, sucking on the skin above my collar bone.  
He's definitely been putting a lot of thought into this. Remembers what I like, and seems to get better at it all the time. I suspect, from the 'magazine incident', that he's been reading up – wouldn't deign to ask me for advice, obviously. Not that I'm complaining.  
My hand worked its way into his hair, keeping his head in that spot so that he _wouldn't stop _doing that. Felt my eyes rolling back slightly as he adjusted his body against me, working out how best to position his lanky frame around me. We ended up virtually tangled around each other, one of my arms across Sherlock's shoulders, one of his legs wrapped around my hips.

Then I felt his fingers slide against the inside of one of my thighs, and trace the outline of my throbbing crotch. Which was when, even as a strangled moan left my mouth, my brain flashed panic and every inch of me froze.

"_HnnnSh-Sherlock!" _I scrabbled out from under him, pulling the duvet over me and trying to cool my thoughts.

He looked at me sideways, still crouched oddly on all fours. When he realised something had gone wrong, he laid on his front, propping his head up on his elbows. Didn't say anything, just watched me.

"R-remember…what I said yesterday? What we agreed?" My voice was still kind of unsteady. I'd wanted to sound firm and authoritative, and was failing miserably. Mainly because Sherlock's mouth was all pink and raw and I couldn't forget where it'd been. "That was dangerous territory, you were going into."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, as if he'd never considered my crotch as 'dangerous territory' before, and sighed. He pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"I never actually agreed to anything."

Smart-arse.

"And besides –" he started, sounding a bit put-out.

"'Besides' what?" I asked…then realised.

'_Who knew that sex was good for crime-solving?' _

"Oh…"

I heard my own voice in my head, and the penny dropped. Sherlock had no idea how to go on with the case, at least until we got the chance to see _Saules-__Élancés _tomorrow. He needed inspiration, somehow. And one of the best ways he'd figured out how to get it was…sex. With me. I turned onto my side, looked at Sherlock sympathetically, while he rolled his eyes and gave me a half-smile.

"I wanted to respect your decision, John, but it was so difficult, distracting myself, when I _knew _that if I could just…" He licked his lips absent-mindedly. "It's all I could think about!" He flopped onto his back and looked sideways at me, imploring me to understand with what almost resembled puppy-dog eyes.

I won't lie. When he admitted that to me, I almost threw all my worries, all my self-restraint – hell, all my _integrity – _out of the window. To know that he wanted me, needed me like that was a pretty huge turn-on. I cleared my throat, trying to ignore the twitching in my pants, and nodded in what I hoped was an understanding way.

Sherlock edged a bit closer to me, his eyes wandering to my lips. "And then watching you _eat…_torture. I thought it might be enough, in the short term, to watch your mouth – enough to at least _remind _me of…other things…but it wasn't." He groaned, as if at the memory of it. "It just made things _worse._" He rubbed his face with his hands, peered at me through his fingers, then tugged the duvet over his head.

I burst out laughing – his feet were poking out of the bottom.

"Don't laugh at me John," came the muffled voice from under the covers, sounding totally wounded. The top of his head re-emerged, so that I could at least see his eyes. "I had to take my…frustrations out on the violin…"

I ran my fingers carefully through his hair, trying to show my sympathy.

"Have you ever tried a cold shower?" I couldn't help but giggle again.

"A, _what_?" He shook his head violently. "No, no. It went away by itself. Usually does. Until you got into bed, that is…"

I bit my bottom lip. Had to stick to what I'd said before, no matter how sorry for Sherlock I felt, or how much my body was trying to tell me to _stop being an idiot and just kiss him already_. It was a self-preservation thing. If I couldn't see this through, who knows what else might go wrong in the future.

"I wish I could help…but…I'm just not ready yet," I told him, keeping my voice soft. "If we take things that far again, it'll have to be my decision – and I'm only likely to make it on the spur of the moment. No pre-planning. Which means you don't have any control over it, I'm afraid." I smiled, watching his forehead crease in silent protest. "It might be good for you, for a change."

He was thinking about it. Drumming his fingers on his chest and staring at the ceiling. I couldn't tell what was going through his head. Probably for the best.  
I pulled the covers down slightly, kissed him softly on the lips, and then turned over and slept.

Yours,

_**Dr. John Watson**_


End file.
